


May Sunshine

by kuiske



Series: Close [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ace!Thorin, Angst, Flashbacks, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, In-universe racism, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vomiting, violence on animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4381574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuiske/pseuds/kuiske
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dwalin stepped on a small clearing surrounded by white-flowered trees, and their cloying sweet scent hit him across the face and knocked him back in time.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	May Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I'm not making money with this. All rights to their respective owners.

Dwalin wasn’t entirely sure why most people considered him a more patient person than Thorin. Had anyone seen fit to ask, he would have been the first one to admit his temper ran far shorter than his partner’s, for all that he was on better mood than him for most of the time. The Maker knew Thorin was _irritable_ and lacked both the ability and the inclination to properly hide his low opinion on some people, but his patience actually took some serious hammering before it broke. There was a world of difference between Thorin’s general bristliness and his white-hot fury when he finally snapped. Dwalin felt it might have actually improved Thorin’s general mood if he ditched his iron-hard self-control and took to cutting bad temper at the source with a well-placed punch. Of course that would’ve created a whole different set of problems for them to deal with, ones involving poverty and starvation not among the least.

Right now Thorin was involved in a very one-sided negotiations and visibly furious enough to snap steel between his teeth. The Man who spoke for his village seemed to enjoy making a show of explaining how his people had no need of their wares, but they’d be allowed to stay and offer them for sale through his abundant good will. Dwalin could only stand behind Thorin and listen to his King being slighted, just as Thorin could do nothing save for listen to the Man decree his terms and bear the insults without complaint. He knew precisely how badly they needed the money, and it was clear the Man knew it too. _They were to make camp outside the village. They were to make no trouble and bear no weapons. The Man was to be allowed to inspect their merchandise to see if it the **quality** was up to his standard before they’d be allowed to sell anything_. Dwalin’s vision flashed red along the edges and the world seemed to slow down for him like it did in combat. Looking down on his nose with chin lifted high the Man probably thought he looked imperious, but from the dwarvish point of view he was practically _begging_ for Dwalin to silence him with a quick upward slash across the throat. The Man sneering at them appeared to be blissfully unaware of how close he came to drowning in his own blood before Dwalin got his temper under control.

Thorin accepted the conditions with curt nod and turned to leave without another word. He probably didn’t trust himself to speak. He was breathing heavily from rage and shame and he walked back to their caravan with his back unnaturally straight and murder in his eyes. Dwalin knew he didn’t look much different himself. He had to fight the urge to clench his hands to fists so as not to look like he was about to cause _trouble_ and he was nearly quivering with desire to break something. He wasn’t the only one either, after Thorin gave the command to make camp and explained on what terms they’d be allowed to stay. Dwalin couldn’t find fault in the people’s bitter grumbling as they went to their assigned tasks. They’d had to choke their pride down along with the cram that kept them alive for decades now, but that didn’t mean they’d learned to like the taste.

The village was located rather close to a forest, so Thorin had named ten dwarves, himself and Dwalin included, for a hunting party to try and forage for fresh meat before the others would come for firewood and scare the animals away in the process. It was almost summer and the woods should be teeming with game. At the edge of the woods their group broke into pairs and spread up to increase their chances of success. Dwalin went with Thorin as he did almost always, though he rather suspected that today Thorin had wanted to be paired with him for reasons that had nothing to do with bringing back meat. Dwalin had a bow, they all did, but long experience of hunting had taught that he was better suited for startling the game in the view than he was for actually hitting mark with an arrow, especially now that he was still furious with the deliberately insulting Man. He knew he’d take out his anger on firewood later in the evening, but at the moment he had to concentrate with all he had on being calm and quiet and on listening to the sounds of animals. 

The sun was high up in the sky today, and far too bright for dwarvish eyes. Neither the fluffy white clouds nor the pale green leaves in the trees offered much in the form of shade, but at least it wasn’t raining like it had for the past week or so. The path forked in front of them and he shared a brief nod with Thorin before the two of them went on their separate way around a thick copse of bushes and small trees. A hundred yards down the path Dwalin stepped on a small clearing surrounded by white-flowered trees, and their cloying sweet scent hit him across the face and knocked him back in time. 

It had been – a day just like this one; the sun was high and too bright, but warm enough to chase away damp chill of the nights that were still cold. They were new to the exile and still trying to learn how to navigate the lush greenery crowding them from every direction. Shadows were shifting on the forest floor, constantly changing shape and place and never staying still. It was a scout’s nightmare and not to be trusted, this forest, this green canopy stretching over them with fresh green leaves fluttering at every cusp of wind and blinding rays of sunlight filtering through branches and leaves. Dwalin wasn’t a scout, though, he was young and he was riding at the head of the column with Hegg, an old warrior who had a white beard and a perpetually good humour. Dwalin wasn’t made to sit on top of a pony, but even he forgot the stiff unease of an uncertain rider as he listened to the outlandish tales of the dwarf riding beside him. 

Dwalin knew what was coming, some part of him that was separate from the careless youngling knew what was coming and he stood transfixed on the spot willing for time to stop, to change. 

(It wouldn’t, it didn’t, it never did.) 

The warning he tried to shout out got lost in the way and went unheard; they rode on with smiles on their lips and the moment shattered into shards with edges sharp enough to cut through decades. 

Hegg was laughing when his throat sprouted an orcish arrow and his laughter corroded into gurgling scream as the breath being forced out of his lungs met a flood of blood. Dwalin’s pony bolted and he fell from the saddle with a dull thud, but Hegg kept his seat somehow; beard sprayed with blood he was clawing for his axe with one hand and grasping at the arrow lodged in his throat with another. Other arrows had found Hegg’s pony, but she didn’t go down even though her paralyzed hind legs collapsed beneath her. The panicked animal was screaming in fear and pain, struggling wildly to stand and run on legs that would never carry her again. Dwalin was still on the ground, all of his training forgotten. He stared at Hegg and Hegg stared right back; he held Dwalin’s eyes as he started to slide from the saddle. 

There were voices all around him, there was yelling about the ambush and Dwalin thought he might have heard his own name, he might have been shouting too, for help, for someone to shoot that pony, put it down, _someone kill it_. He had eyes only for Hegg who was falling still, impossibly slowly with his last breath bubbling on his lips. He never hit the ground, in Dwalin’s mind he never hit the ground, he would be falling, falling, falling, forever, trapped in a broken moment between two heartbeats. A gust of wind shook a spray of petals on them both. The white flowers from trees full in bloom rained on them like snow, and as surely as the terrified look in the eyes slowly glazing over their scent filled his head. The little flowers crawled right into his soul and sank their claws somewhere so deep he’d never be able to pull them out. 

As if through fog someone was calling for him, he was certain of it, this time, though he couldn’t quite make out the words. Dwalin was struggling to get on his feet, he thinks he was anyway. (When had he fallen?) He should _stand_ and _fight_ , there were hands touching him and every single one of his instincts was screaming at him to get his axes, so he must have tried, _surely_ he must have tried? There were arms around him, pressing him against the person in front of him, holding him tight, and _he should **fight**_. He could register dimly his face being pressed against armour and a low voice speaking words he couldn’t understand. Slowly the familiar scents of sweat, leather and iron got through to him and drowned out the white flowers. 

For a while he hangs between two realities, both happening right now, concentrating on a gentle hand caressing the back of his head while the world around moves jarringly and out of pace. 

“Dwalin?” Thorin whispers his name voice tinged with concern, and of course it’s Thorin, of course it is him. 

Dwalin releases a shaky breath that’s more resembling to a sob. The present day floods back with a rush, and suddenly he’s aware of where he is and how _close_ the hands cradling him against a broad chest are. Thorin is too close, in a blink his touch goes from comforting to _too much_ , and finding that he can move again Dwalin throws himself backwards with a panicked jerk. He’s scrambling blindly to get on his feet, to get away, but his chest feels too tight and breathing becomes suddenly impossible. With desperate gasps for breath and a violent shock of nausea his stomach constricts and turns over, and he’s back on his knees, retching up bile and air long after his half-digested breakfast has splattered on the forest floor. 

Dwalin isn’t sure how long it takes, but when he comes back to himself he’s drenched in cold sweat with strings of snot and vomit hanging from his beard. Thorin is standing clearly in his line of vision, but he doesn’t try to approach. Instead he offers Dwalin a wet rag and a flask of water with deliberately slow movements. Dwalin feels absurdly grateful that Thorin doesn’t try to help him wash his face. He wouldn’t mind usually, he loves the feel of Thorin’s fingers running through his beard, but right now he wants to preserve some dignity through autonomy. He has asked once how it looks like when he gets trapped in memories: as if deaf and blind and frozen on the spot like a bird before a snake. Dwalin has never mentioned it to anyone, but he’s deeply ashamed of how passive he becomes whenever this happens. He knows he should be grateful he doesn’t have to fear hurting people in his panic like Thorin who takes to terror like a trapped and wounded wild animal, but he’s ashamed all the same, and deeply uncomfortable about the knowledge that anyone could kill him and he’d never even put up a fight. 

“Any luck hunting?” Dwalin’s voice sounds foreign to his ears and his throat is sore from the acidic bile that burned its way out of him. 

Thorin nods his head to his left and Dwalin’s gaze follows to find a scrawny carcass of a fawn a few feet away where Thorin must have dumped it along with his bow. 

“Hardly any meat on it, but it’s better than nothing,” Thorin says dismissively. 

“Aye.” Dwalin pushes himself up to his feet and tosses the empty flask back at Thorin. The rag he leaves abandoned on the ground; it’s filthy and so threadbare already that washing it wouldn’t be worth the trouble anymore. 

Both of them are rather pointedly not mentioning the state Thorin found him in. There’s really not much to discuss beyond redundant questions they both already know the answers to. _Feeling like shit, thanks for asking. Yes it was those damn flowers and yes, he’s handling them now._ Dwalin glances at the blooming trees with unspeakable resentment and feels a violent, mad desire to hack them all to pieces until there are none left upon this earth. He can’t explain how it can be that they remind him of blood and death more vividly than actual blood or bodies of fallen shield-brothers, but they do all the same. It’s like they _know_ what they have the power to do to him and are now laughing at him silently because they managed to take him by surprise. Dwalin doesn’t much care to be mocked by trees. 

Thorin taps the flask against the pommel of his dagger with a sharp clang and Dwalin pretends not to be startled by the sound. He realises he has been staring at the trees for a few moments too long, which Thorin must have noticed though he chooses not to comment on it. Dwalin shrugs himself mentally as well as physically and pointedly turns his back at them and moves away. He rejects Thorin’s wordless offer for comfort with a brief shake of his head and picks up the dead deer and slings it on his shoulders instead. He is feeling unnaturally jumpy and he isn’t sure he wants to be touched quite yet; he longs for exhausting physical labour now more than ever. Dwalin flashes Thorin a brief half-smile in passing to tell him to stop worrying already, to tell him he’s fine. And he is, he is all right, truly. 

He’s just never getting to leave that forest a hundred years ago is all. 

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're curious, the trees are hackberries (prunus padus).


End file.
